Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“Okay, I got it! Jeez, since when did you memorize my outfits?” A tremor runs down my spine as his eyes roam up and down my body.
“Since always. Go try on your new presents, wife, and tell me if anything is not up to your satisfaction.”
He emphasizes the last word. I glance at the pool table. Get it together, Deanna.
Back upstairs I start tearing open boxes. A deep emerald A-line Max Mara column gown, a Saint Laurent tuxedo blazer and tailored trousers, a cream silk blouse from The Row, Louboutin pumps, a silk slip dress from Cucinelli, and dozens of other pieces, all in my size, all fabulously designer, overpriced, and gorgeous.
I’ve never seen clothes like this before in my life. Not outside of a magazine at least. My paycheck stretches at Target and Marshall’s, and rarely I’ll treat myself to the Gap or Banana Republic. That skirt he likes so much is six years old and from Abercrombie.
This is wealth like I’ve never experienced. My heart races as I lift a black Dolce & Gabbana lace dress, lovely and conservative, and I know instantly it’s what I have to wear. Despite myself, I’m excited to pull it on and strip immediately, kicking off my tattered old jeans and t-shirt from when I went to summer camp at sixteen, and pull the dress over my head. Once it’s on, I turn to the full-length mirror, and nearly scream to find Prime lurking near the bedroom door.
“What the fuck!” I whirl around to face him. “You scared the crap out of me.”
He’s staring like he’s never seen me before. His face is hard, almost angry, as his eyes rake from my ankles to my throat, up to my lips, lingering for a long time there, before meeting my nervous gaze.
“You look incredible.”
“Th-thank you.” I hug myself and look back at the mirror. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely. It’s perfect.” He approaches and stands beside me. He’s so much bigger than I am, so much more handsome. His large hands dwarf my hips as he touches me, smoothing over the dress slowly. There’s a needy energy between us, one I’ve never felt before.
“Were you watching me get changed?” I whisper.
“It’s not my fault you didn’t bother looking around.”
“Prime…”
“It was an accident.”
“Sure it was.” I let my head fall back against his chest. I like the way it feels, like it’s natural and I fit just right. I take a moment to admire his powerful forearms, the veins and the tattoos, and his incredible hands, big and calloused. Not the hands of a CEO, but those of a man used to fighting for his life.
“Wear this tonight.”
“That was the plan.”
“Good girl.” He pats my ass lovingly.
In another life, at another time, I’d tell him off for it.
But here and now? In our bedroom? In this dress?
He can get away with one.
Il Cardinale is a hole-in-the-wall Italian place off Washington Ave. It looks like a restaurant that was built in the fifties and hasn’t changed a bit in the years since. The carpets are beautifully maintained, the tables all have white linens, and there are candles flickering everywhere.
The hostess is strangely deferential to Prime. It surprises me the way she falls over herself to bring us back into the place like he’s a regular here or something. But I know everywhere he goes, and I’ve never heard of this place before. As we follow her, Prime takes my hand, drawing me close as we navigate the tightly packed establishment.
“People are staring,” I whisper to him as we wind our way to the back.
“Don’t pay it any mind.” He pats my arm affectionately. “They’re only jealous that I have the most beautiful wife in the room.”
I’m not sure that’s true, but it’s nice to hear anyway. Many of the other couples are young and wealthy-looking, though there are more than a few older professionals mixed in with the crowd, the kind of elegant men and women who make me feel like an idiot even looking at them.
We’re taken to a table in a good, private spot, only to find two people already waiting.
“Deanna, this is my associate, Ricardo Salerno and his wife.”
“Charmed, dear.” Ricardo shakes my hand. He’s an older Italian man, heavyset in a black pin-striped suit with his dark hair slicked back. His wife is the mirror image of him: shorter, on the thick side, but wearing an immaculately expensive dress, earrings, and a glittering diamond necklace.
“Donatella, darling,” the wife says, giving my hand a cursory swipe of her palm. “The pleasure’s yours. And hello to you, Prime, I’ve heard so much.”
“Wonderful to meet you finally, Donatella. That’s a beautiful necklace. Which jeweler did you use?”
The old woman immediately starts talking diamond vendors, giving way too much detail and complaining about each and every one. Prime listens half-politely, interrupting her only to order his usual bourbon. I ask for a glass of rosé which earns a wrinkled nose and a chortle from the lovely Donatella, but she’s back on stones the second the waitress is gone.